That Which He Desires
by Marie Meyers
Summary: He wished not for it, the title of King, but it was that which he accepted for his fate with his eyes open. However, he would not rule for Country. He would not rule for power. His only condition, was that his reign would be to have her by his side; if that was not what made a proper king, he supposed France was slighted to one day follow the improprieties of a Bastard. M/OS/S.


Title: **That Which He Desires**

Summary: _He wished not for it, the title of King, but it was that which he accepted for his fate with his eyes open. However, he would not rule for Country. He would not rule for power. His only condition, was that his reign would be to have her by his side; if that was not what made a proper king, he supposed France was slighted to one day follow the improprieties of a Bastard. Mash. One-Shot. Spoiler for 1x10 "Sacrifice"._

Disclaimer/Letter from the Author: I actually have no comments other than this episode was pure joy.

_Reign _is not mine; however this fandom plot is. Please ask permission before and reuse of any part of this fanfiction.

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><p><strong><span>That Which He Desires<span>**

Sebastian wanted it not, the title of King. He had no objections against his title-less existence, his scandalous birth that rendered him without the riches his father's name should have given him, without the possibility of royalty. Of kingship.

Instead, he was given good will and endless freedom. He loved his brothers, but he did not envy them - them, who were trapped, suffocated by their responsibilities and rules. He, in comparison, followed no rules but his own, suffocated only by the lingering longing in his soul for more adventure after night had fallen.

No, he envied them not. And nor would he ever. Everything he ever wanted - all he ever desired - was in the wind that he chased after on horseback, and in the trees he climbed beneath the rising sun.

But then, he met _her_, and she changed everything. Mary, Queen of Scots, whom just suddenly appeared one mid summer's day; and with their first meeting she had captured him, bewitched him into stumbling after her, with his eyes, and his words, and his dreams. Before he knew it himself, he was helplessly ensnared - and she had turned his contented lifestyle into one from which he needed more from.

Even now, as they paid their respects to his cousin, he was stumbling; awe-struck and enchanted by her strength, and by her heart.

He had been thinking of it for a while, the words he spoke next, when he grabbed her hand and in his and pulled out his handkerchief to nurse her wound. Longer than a few hours. Longer than a couple days.

No, he had been thinking about it, ever since he kissed her that first time. Ever since he had been compelled to glance behind him in the inn, and saw the porcelain skin his fingers itched to feel beneath them.

If there was something more to his life that he may have, it'd be her. Mary.

He was a man dying of thirst, and he only desired a drop, one taste on his tongue; for the droplet would sate him, take away the parch of his throat.

Or perhaps he was wrong in that, and it would leave him quivering for more.

Yea, he wished not for it, the title of King; but if Life willed for him it so, it was that which he accepted for his fate with eyes open. To protect from death those he loved, and to save himself from a dishonourable death by the gallows.

He would learn every trick, every policy that was to be necessary for Kingship; he would prove to the nobles that he could sit upon the throne.

His only condition, was that his reign have her by his side; for he was not his brother. He thought little of Country and Power; but he thought everything of her, the world of her, and if Mary needed a French king and the throne of England, he would stand beside her, and be the one to lay the world she required at her feet.

He would do anything for her to grace her smile upon him; anything for her to look at him with that sparkle in her eye; for she was all he needed; if that was not what made a proper king, he supposed France was slighted to one day follow the improprieties of a Bastard, and as she stilled his speech and pressed her lips against his, and he stroked her cheek with his bloodstained palm - before the flutter in his stomach became to much and he swept her in his arms, and pressed her to him - he thought, _propriety be damned_.

For if the way of a proper king meant to think with just his mind, and just for country, and not with the heart that was hammering hard in his chest at their shared promixity and mingled breaths, he was indeed, not fit to sit upon the throne.

But for Mary, this strikingly beautiful girl that had swept into his life without warning, completely uprooting everything he'd ever known, he would act the part of a proper king in front of the country men, just so long as he'd be able to pledge his fealty to her behind their closed doors.

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